Flowers for Alfons
by Hime D
Summary: [SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE AND ITS ENDING] Ed is not very good at dealing with lost.


* * *

Three days after your death I found myself standing in front of your grave. The funeral was a small one, but it was attended by everyone who managed to know you during this last one year you have lived in München. Your mother didn't make it to the funeral, unfortunately. She was so broken hearted by the news of your sudden depart that her weak heart couldn't stand the shock. If I were to believe in Heaven and all those shit, I would have trusted that you would have met her there already, because you really deserved a place where you could be happy at last.

Well, I'm not saying that you weren't happy. One does wonder, though, of how one could be happy with a crazy roommate who could make the World Record with his selfishness and ego alone. I must have been quite a trouble for you, with my aloofness toward this world that you loved, this world that I kept referring as a dream, anything but my reality. It must have bothered you so much if you ended up yelling at me like that, yet you still went and sent me back to my own world, my home, at the cost of your own life.

Damn you. What were you thinking?

You know, there's this thing about martyrs, this tendency of forgetting this little thing when they go and kill themselves for somebody else. I will admit, when it comes to Al, I would end up making the same mistake in the heat of the moment, and I guess it took Al sacrificing himself for me... and dad and you sacrificing your lives for Al and I to meet... to realize that it really hurt. It hurts like bitch to be the one left behind. And I'm not talking about flesh wound hurt or any tangible stuff like that.

It's heavy, you know, to realize that you are the cause of one's death. It's like killing. Yeah, I can say that I have killed Al once by him exchanging his Philosopher's Stone ridden body with my soul. I have killed dad, by letting him sacrifice himself to open the Gate. I have killed you by... fuck, do I have to explain it in detail?

The point is, I don't like it. I don't. I loathe it. Hell, if only you knew how badly I want to punch you right now. Punch and kick and gut you, skewer you and throw you to the hounds. But no, you can't know that, unless you turned into a ghost and are haunting me right now. Or turned into a homunculus.

...In a way, I'm glad I'm not living in my home world any longer. The temptation would be too big to bear, you know. I guess I'm not all that changed, all these years. When I saw you there, lying in the coffin surrounded by lilies, all that went through my head was a particular array and the litany that has been haunting me since the day I turned my mother into a monster. And I almost regretted destroying the Portal, not because Al and I couldn't go home, but because that means there would be no way to bring you to living again.

I really wish you could be here again.

* * *

One week after your death I find myself in a truck heading to Leipzig. Al is with me, as well as Noah. I insisted on Al taking a nap despite his desire to talk more with the other hitchhikers. He is young, despite having living experience even more than mine, if you count his waking hours. His body needs to rest while it can. He's only been here for a week, and my experience told me that it will be only a matter of time before he catches something and gets down with a nasty cold. It took me two months to get on my own feet then, but then again, I was in a bad shape, with my automail ports trying to adjust with the prosthetics my dad made. Maybe Al will only need a month at the most. Noah promised to stay around until Al's body got used to this world, then she will go on her own way.

Al and Noah get along quite well. She helps him communicating with people around him when I'm not available, since German is quite a difficult language to learn, despite some of its similarities with Amestri-- I mean, English. I think Al should be able to master it in a few months, but until then, well, we'll just have to make sure that nobody will mistake him for English and lynch him.

It's a sad world here, I came to notice, full of ruins from the war and desperation from the punishment the so-called winners of the war toward Germany. Yes, I know I've been here for two years already, but you know I didn't exactly notice things then, so in a way, I'm no different than Al in this regard, only with better grasp at German. But I guess now I finally understand why you were so hell-bent on working on your project. It must have been hard for you to see your own country's people living in the ruined economy, oppressed by foreign countries, its incompetent ruler too busy fighting among themselves. You must have thought that if you succeeded, you would bring pride to your country, and even if the people couldn't eat properly, at the least they have something to live for, a pride that will not die.

Your project succeeded, but you died with it, you idiot. What's the point? And nobody but those who were present knows about it. It was pointless. You died for nothing.

* * *

One month after your death I find myself in an obscure inn outside Berlin, sitting in a chair next to my brother's bed. True to the prediction, Al caught a nasty cold. He's been down for two days with a fever. The doctor gave him some antibiotics, but for the fever, we can only wait until it breaks on its own.

It reminds me of last year, around this time as well. You just came to München to pursue your dream and came down with pneumonia, thanks to the hours-long labor that you forced yourself go through. Damn it, we all used to remind you not to strain yourself too much even back then in Hermannstadt but you never listened, not once. I remember Miss Gratia calling me because I was the only friend of yours that she knew, and it was heartbreaking, you know. Seeing you alone in your room, trying to sleep off your fever. I'll admit, that time, I was seeing my brother in you. What if it were him? What if he caught something and I wasn't there for him?

Yeah, I know it was a silly thought, but I couldn't help it. That's why I insisted on caring for you then, because I couldn't make myself leave you alone there. And you got the nerve to tease me about crying. I told you, I wasn't crying. You didn't clean up your room good enough while you were sick and dust was getting into my eyes.

...It's funny, you know, how I never realized that you coughed so many times. I guess I was too absorbed in my own misery, forgetting that I wasn't alone. Come to think of it, you tried to make me feel at home as much as you could, despite your busy schedule. You sheltered me after dad left. You cooked for me, you cleaned for me, and I couldn't even share the rent. You acted like a mother, a father, a brother, a friend, and I couldn't even see it. I kept looking for something that wasn't reachable, and now that I got it back... I wonder if it was worth it.

I'm not saying I regret having Al here. I mean, probably Al would have been happier back in Amestris, but as I tried to tell him that, he socked me on the jaw and told me to get over my self and just be glad that he is now here to remind me that the thing that makes him happy the most is being with me here. What a brother I have, huh?

No, it's not Al I'm talking about. I wonder... to you, was it worth dying to reunite me and Al? Was it worth throwing your life away for somebody who's---

Shit, I'm not worth it, damn it. I'm not worthy of your fucking life. Why did you have to die for me!?

* * *

Two months after your death I find myself huddling in a bed, in yet another obscure inn. Al was worried, especially after we parted ways with Noah. Al's German is getting better day after day, but it is by no mean perfect. Fortunately our English sound more like American's, so no lynching there yet. But still, there is hindrance in communication, and people are naturally wary of foreigners. We probably should be heading to Bremen for a while until Al could do something about his accent.

It is one of those days where I find myself not wanting to get up. I used to have days like this. You should know. After all, you're the one who always trying to coax me out, or if I really didn't feel like it, at least get myself a decent meal. You really spoiled me, you know. Should have kicked me and leave me alone to rot. It should have been easier that way to you, instead of spending all morning trying to wake me up.

Al is looking at me worriedly and I can almost see blue behind his hazel eyes. I really am a bad brother. Could it be that now I have Al here, I want you instead? What kind of an ingrate I am?

I told him that I'm okay and I only need to lie down. Easily believable, considering that we spent the whole night trying to decipher Einstein's theories (you were right, I shouldn't have let my emotion preventing me from looking at the old scientist neutrally; he does have some good thoughts).

Al believed me and went to concentrate on his books, trying his hard to understand the words there. Oh Al, he tries so hard to assimilate himself here I'm starting to wonder if he really likes it better here than back home. But then again, I was the one who told him that this world is ours too, because we live here...

I feel like I'm the worst hypocrite sometimes.

* * *

Three months after your death I find myself sitting on the edge of Al's bed, watching my brother crying in his sleep. I can tell that he is dreaming of our home world because he keeps calling out Winry, Aunty, Den, and mom.

This isn't the first time I saw him like this. I don't know if he notices, but he does that a lot. Maybe it's his way to grieve for our lost. In a way, maybe it was good. He is dealing with this quite smoothly, at least smoother than I was. But then again, the circumstances are different. Back then there were hopes that I might be able to go home. Now, both of us know that it is impossible. And it's okay.

But still, I don't like seeing Al crying. Al is strong. Really, he shouldn't be this strong. He's so strong that sometimes I do wonder of that little boy who used to follow me everywhere I go. But Al is still a kid. Okay, maybe he's your age, but you know how your body can influence your mindset. Al's body is only thirteen, almost fourteen. He hasn't even hit his growth spurt.

Maybe it was better if we were never reunited. Then Al would still be in Resembool, and you would still be alive. I did find out that he was alive, I was quite satisfied with that, you know. Why did you still have to go and get yourself killed?

* * *

Six months after your death I find myself not wanting to hear Al speaking in German anymore.

One of the things that always reminded me that you were not Al was your voice. It was so different than Al's, the language, the way you talk, the way you stumble with words because you always needed time when it comes to words that are related with emotions instead of science, you geek.

But today I woke up and found Al holding his throat, and I knew that it has begun. It was too fast, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe it was the body that follows the mind instead of the other way, and Al's body is trying to accommodate the seventeen years old in him. Al is barely fourteen, but already his voice started to change. And I hate it because this morning, Al greeted me Gutten Morgen, and in my sleep-fogged mind, I almost thought that it was you.

* * *

One year after your death I find myself wondering if this is your way to exact your revenge at me.

Al is getting taller and taller. In the space of only half a year, he was already the same height with me. I can see him getting even bigger, and the bigger he gets, the more I feel this nausea every time I see him standing in front of the window, with the moonlight as the only source of lighting in the room, and his complexion pales and his hair loses color, and I keep having to remind myself that he is not you.

He looks nothing like you, you know. His smile is more exuberant compared to your calm one. His movements have more energy bursting compared to your laidback attitude. His words are more frank, tactful but could be biting, compared to your tendency not to speak unless you had to. But there under the stars, I will see him and think, oh god, why do I keep seeing you in my brother?

* * *

Two years after your death I found myself being cornered by my brother. He asked me why I am creating distance with him.

It was not like I did it on purpose. I love Al, I love him so much. He is the only one I have in this world and I can't bear to lose him again. He is the sweetest little brother one could ever get, the perfect brother that I can talk with, play with, study and work with, cry with...

He just happens to look like you a lot.

I don't know if it is the hormones, but as time went by, his dirty blond hair gets more and more light colored. Currently it is almost the same color with mine, and I am worried to death that it will continue to get even lighter, making it light blond like, well, yours.

It's scary, you know. There are times when I can't even differ you two without a conscious effort. Maybe it's just my memories of you that is chipping away along with time, but he acts more and more like how you would, and there were times when he would say what you would have said--- hell, what you _did_ say to me, and I would feel my breath taken away from my lungs, because it hurt so much---

I'm scared. I don't want him to be like you. I don't want him to be you. Please, don't do this to me.

* * *

Three years after your death I find myself leaning against the rails of the boat that is taking us to England. It is dusk and I can see Mercury in the west, accompanying the sun as it slides down the sky to finish its role today. One by one, stars start to show themselves as the sun's light dimmed, leaving streaks of red in the darkening sky.

As I watch the sky around me change, I keep wondering. Are you angry at me for leaving Germany? Am I a traitor for running away from the country that you loved? The country that you were willing to die for?

The Thule Society is going after us. That much we managed to gather, what with the several attempts made on our lives. If I were alone, I would have shrugged it off and continued with my search for the uranium, but I have Al with me and I don't want anything to happen to Al.

It's funny, isn't it? Back when he was still a suit of armor, I wasn't really worried of him. As long as his blood seal is fine, then I could transmute him back into one piece, so I never really felt this fear for his life. That is, until he got turned into the Philosopher's Stone. I guess the Colonel must have gotten really pissed at my stupidity then. What can I say? I panicked.

We're still going to find the uranium. I'll find a way to do it without endangering Al's life too much. To tell the truth, there are times when I just feel like forgetting everything. Just want to find a safe place and live, the two of us, like any ordinary people, without a care for the world. But then again, if the uranium ended up being used---

No, the uranium will be used. I saw it in my encounter with the Gate, and I know I have to stop it. It was a horrible vision, you know. More horrible that anything I've ever seen. A whole town engulfed in fire, and those who didn't die immediately will go through a slow a painful death with puss and maggots all over their body from their wounds, simply because there won't be anybody to help them.

It will be our fault, that. That's why we have to stop it.

...You'll approve me for that, will you?

* * *

Four years after your death I find myself sitting in front of Al in a small room in Surrey, in an ironically similar way I used to sit in front of you back in M?chen. Al is looking back at me, and I can see your blue eyes behind his hazel ones.

Al turned seventeen a few months ago at the same date you turned seventeen four years ago, but it is only now that it hit me like a bullet to the head. You two are so similar, in face, in build. I struggle hard to keep your face from overlapping with his, but it is a futile effort. Then Al reaches out for me and brushes his hand across my cheek like you did once, and I can't--- I just can't---

* * *

Fuck, it's so embarrassing to be crying. In front of my baby brother, nevertheless. I just couldn't hold it in, not with Al acting like he understands and comforting and all those shit. He can't possibly understand how I feel, he doesn't even know you. How can he understand---

But fuck, why can't I stop crying? I don't want to bawl like this, as if I were a seven years old kid. I'm not a damsel who desperately needs her knight in shining armor. I don't even know why I'm crying! Fuck my eyes that can't seem to stop trying to drench Al's shirt wet. Fuck my lungs that can't seem to stop sobbing out air. Fuck my legs that can't hold my own weight that I had to hold on Al for support. Fuck everything.

* * *

You know, for all the things that Al would have done, I never expected him to tell me to speak to him as if he was you. That stupid brother. All this time I've been trying to separate him from you, and he suddenly says: hey Brother, I'm not Mister Heiderich, and I don't know him at all, but I can pretend to be him if you need it.

And I tell him: no, I don't want that. You're my brother, not him.

He has the gals to say: I know. But it looks like you really need to talk to him. But seeing that it's kind of late now...

Then he apologizes to me, for what reason I don't know, but I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes again and I really feel like tearing them out of the sockets. Then he caresses my hair softly, and if I have thought that he sounded rather similar to you, now he sounds exactly like you when he says: I can feel that this is four years worth of tears.

And he says again: You never said anything about Mister Heiderich to me, so I don't know how he was like. But I know you miss him so much. I can see that every time you look at me.

I tell him: I don't miss him.

He smiles. Saying: Are you trying to lie at me or yourself?

I don't know.

Al tightens his hands around me and nuzzles my hair, as if he was the big brother instead of me. Then he calls my name, and I really can't tell if it is him or you who are calling at me: Edward.

He/you say: Edward, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry I can't be here with you. I'm sorry for everything.

And my grip tightens, my chest constricts, and the tears are back, and I really don't care any longer. Fuck you. Fuck you to all existence. Why do you make me feel like this? Why are you turning me into this hopeless crybaby? Why can't I just put your memories aside like I did Mustang and the others? Why can't I just move on? Why can't I stop thinking about you? Why can't I---

_Because you love me._

...I love you?

_Yes._

...That's not possible. You're dead.

_Did you stop loving your mother when she died?_

Of course not, I---

...Shit.

Is that why you keep haunting me?

_I don't haunt you. You just never let go of me._

But--- but you told me not to forget you...

_I don't want you to forget me. But I don't want you to hold on to me throughout your whole life._

...What should I do?

_Live. And love._

* * *

Five years after your death I find myself standing in front of your grave for the first time since the funeral. It is taken cared off very well by Miss Gratia, its stone cleaned and the flowers growing around it thrive, probably having a feast on the minerals your body left. I try not to let my mind wander to how you must have looked down there; instead, I look at the lilies and marvel on how beautiful they are.

I remember Master Izumi's teaching about the works of the universe. One is all and all is one. You died and your body gets decomposed, turned into minerals, absorbed by these flowers, returning to the nature, being One.

I guess you will always be with me whether I like it or not. Strangely, though, knowing that feels nice.

...We will be heading to America in a few weeks, so this will probably be the last time I will be coming here. Hopefully I'll be able to come here again someday, but I can't promise you that. Our minerals can probably meet again if I get killed or something, but I'll do my best not to get iced too fast. I hope you don't mind me taking a little bit of the soil here. Yeah, I know I sound so girly just now, but bear with me, will you?

Okay, Al is waiting for me. We have to go now. Don't want the Society to catch us yet.

...See you again, Alfons.

* * *

A/N: This was supposed to be posted on Alfons' Death Day at November the 8th, but I only finished it now. Ah well. ...And no, this has nothing to do with Flowers for Algernon. Thank you for Cryogenia for the support during writing this. I couldn't have finished it without you. 


End file.
